


Sometimes it is too late to turn back, to walk away

by awatsonjustforyou



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied Future Character Death, M/M, vaguely disturbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:22:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awatsonjustforyou/pseuds/awatsonjustforyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is too far gone to realise the true horror of what Hannibal really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes it is too late to turn back, to walk away

"You're the Chesapeake Ripper, aren't you?" Will's voice is quiet and sleepy as he announces his revelation. He's snuggled up against you, trustingly, with his head in your lap, as he attempts to sleep and you simply read quietly in bed.   
  
"Yes. Amongst others." Your voice is soft, non threatening.  
  
"I can only sleep when you're here." Will gently tosses, exposing more of his neck to your hungry gaze, his position vulnerable, exposed. So easy to slaughter. You know that what he's saying is true; he hasn't slept apart from you in months - too scared to face his monsters, too scared to go sleepwalking again and walk in front of a car or off his roof. Too unstable to be able to distinguish between dreams (nightmares) and reality, unless you are there to guide him.   
  
"I think" he stutters, and yawns "I think it's because no other monster can touch me when I'm here. And the hallucinations are quiet because they're all about you - the stag, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Abigail - they're all your design and have no reson to plague me if you're here."   
  
With this, he turns once more, nuzzles your thigh, and goes quiet with his breath gently warming your skin. Eventually you hear his exhales even out, and gain a soft, nasal tone as he falls deeper into slumber.  
  
And still you do nothing, you don't reach for restrains, or for the scalpel, hidden in your bedside draw. Your hand grazes his neck but all you do is check his pulse, and gently caresses his hair; instead of twisting his neck or strangling his life slowly out of him.   
  
Because how can you hurt the poor little lamb, who came willing to you, knowing that it would lead to his slaughter, simply because you're the only place where he feels safe?  
  
(By your design.)  
  
You kill him later.


End file.
